Legacy
by Night Has Fallen
Summary: Draco. Lucius. Severus. These are dark days. A mockery of Love and Marriage a parade of secondhand beauty. What has happened to that infamous word Love? Draco is to find out. Read and Review, Flame if need be. Enjoy !
1. Chapter One

To Have and To Hold

"M-master –"

The house elf bowed carefully, meticulously averting his eyes from any part of his master's being.

"Mas-master," He squeaked again, "The m-mistress has – has a message, to be delivered to you in reply to your honor's summons, oh my master." The creature began to quake as it felt the master's glare smoldering the crown of his lowered head.

"Well then, if it's from the mistress, by all means get on with it." The sneer in his master's smooth tones was unmistakable. The ongoing discord between his master and mistress was legendary. This message, however, might bring the entire thing to a head. Nobody was quite sure which they would prefer to be the final victor.

The house elf swallowed – audibly.

The master whirled and pointed at the unfortunate creature, and the poor thing began to rise steadily in the air. He squeaked in dismay.

"Did I not tell you," The master hissed, bringing his index and thumb fingers close together as though pinching material, "To _get on with it?"_

The house elf's throat began to constrict. "Y-yes, oh venerable master." He choked out. His dangling feet began to kick and flail as his windpipe began to close.

"And," The master's voice lowered to a sinister level, "You _are_ aware of these worthy gentlemen surrounding me, all waiting most patiently for the entertainment owed them as _my guests?"_

When the creature failed to answer, the master made a particularly vicious twist of his hand, as though breaking something thick.

The house elf squealed piteously as his shoulder popped from its socket. A few of the "gentlemen" laughed.

"Y-yes, oh divinity which is mine to serve!" The pitiable creature gasped.

"Then tell me," The master's voice lowered still more, a barely audible growl, his ice clinking in his glass with each word. "What –" Clink. "Is –" Clink. _"The message?"_

"She – she says she won't come, oh most worthy of masters." The house elf reported fuzzily. His voice sounded funny to his too large ears, as though he'd been drinking. A gurgle of some kind escaped his lips.

"She refuses."

He had meant to add some sort of honorific to the end of that statement, but found he couldn't remember quite how to work his tongue.

The glass shattered.

Had he remained conscious as his filthy body dropped to the floor, he would have realized he needn't worry; his master's attention had been wholly diverted.

As it was, he had just enough time to watch the black clad feet of his master disappear as he bolted for the grand, incomparable staircase of Malfoy Manor. Then the fuzzy blackness, prodding for some time, engulfed him, and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter Two

To Have and To Hold

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

_Chapter Two_

Narcissa, as vain and beautiful and proud as her name suggested, sat beside her beaurearu, looking cold, and crystalline as ice. She listened to her husband's thundering steps in silence, the edges of her lips curved up in a small, vicious smile. Not a hair was out of place on that white-gold head as it bent slightly, studying her dagger sharp nails.

Her hair fell softly about her, waves and rivulets of silken ringlets. Many a man would gladly suffer death at her husband's hand just to bury their faces among the hair. Many more would be willing to suffer a thousand deaths to run their hands along her glorious figure. A million deaths would be well worth it if they could have a chance of intimacy.

The problem was, her husband knew a thousand thousand things much, much worse than death.

Her husband was at the door.

He entered without knocking, barely taking in the figure of his wife in her negligee. He had long since gotten past the grandeur of her beauty.

"Good evening, Lucius." Narcissa's throaty purr floated over to him, as calm and winning as ever. Her body, however, tensed, and Lucius' keen eyes, glinting and stone grey, failed to miss this. He fought down the stirring he felt when he took in her readiness for war.

"You are supposed to be downstairs at this time. I'm sure you didn't fail to receive this... message."

His voice was calm and unassuming, carefully tucking away the rage and want to employ quite different strategies other than rationalization mixed with coercion.

"You _summoned_ me, Lucius." Was her equally careful reply. "You know I do not reply to summons."

"You do to mine." He replied curtly.

"When they are reasonable."

"And what, pray Madame, do you consider 'reasonable'?"

"It sure as hell isn't parading naked in front of your collected 'gentlemen'! Mab, Lucius!"

Narcissa didn't like tactical approaches.

Her husband sneered at her. "What, then, do you suppose your looks are for other than 'parading'? Enlighten me."

Narcissa fought to regain the control she had so rashly lost. Perhaps she could turn this around.

Standing, she allowed the sheer material covering her curvaceous form to drop, slithering to the floor with a silken hiss. Swaying her hips, she approached her husband, locking eyes and allowing a sexy grin to play over her mouth.

Pressing herself against him, she trailed her fingers down over his chest, swirling them over his abdomen, and moving on. Her other hand played with a lock of his hair, nearly as fine as her own.

"Why, Lucius," She murmured, "They're for you!"

Lucius felt himself longing to react to his wife's touch, but he had long ago mastered control over every aspect of himself. Mab, but she was beautiful!

Lucius managed a dismissive snort. "Me and about thirty other of your lovers." For a moment, his arms tightened around her and Narcissa's breath quickened. Then he pushed her roughly away, cursing at himself for almost giving way.

The two worked at composing themselves.

Narcissa move to the bed, drawing the top coverlet partially around her.

Lucius moved to the high-backed scarlet chair and rested his hand on the wing, his other clenched into a fist.

Neither spoke.

"You will come down and entertain our guest."

"_Your_ guests, Lucius. And no, I won't." Narcissa's beauty hardly diminished as she sat there, a delicate pout on her face.

"Don't bother, Narcissa," Lucius said with a sneer, "Your looks, however _pretty,_ don't work on me." His voice did nothing to betray his rising anger; she was _his_ wife, and he would do with her as he pleased. How dare she disobey him! How _dare_ she! And in the presence of Them, no less.

"You can give it up too, then, pet. There's nothing you could do to make me, so why don't you just go off in a corner and lick your pride; goodness knows it'll take you the better part of the week to finish, your ego being so big." She laughed harshly. "I'm the only thing you _can't_ control, dearest."

Her sweet smile was too much.

With a snarl, Lucius leapt upon her, closing a fist over her hair that she prided herself in so much. Narcissa shrieked and set her nails to Lucius' neck.

"Nothing I can do? Oh darling, that's where you're too wrong. There are a thousand, thousand things, all too ready for me to command." He snarled, wrenching her head further and further back.

His eyes locked on hers, and her gaze was one of pure venom. But the smile, that tiny, secret-secret smile re-fixed itself on her face, changing her pretty looks to a goyle's grimace.

"As you wish it, Lucius!" Her pearly teeth were bared in two, even, dazzling white lines. It was through those evenly rowed soldiers that she spat.

"Go ahead, darling! Loose your demons on me! Let me be haunted for the rest of my days, a phantom, a crazed phantasm cackling in your rafters of your grand, grand house, your precious sanctuary! You'll be stuck, Lucius: Death, my death, would be your only option, and _that_ would hardly be satisfying, now would it, pet?"

His grip on her tumbled mane had loosened, and she drew her head close to him, placing her mouth beside his ear.

"Remember, oh husband, just remember – I am not one of your darling girls that you occasionally tumble, in need of coercion. I'm a big girl. I've seen big things. There is nothing you could do that could frighten me. _You,_ darling – have no control."

Until then, Lucius' steely gray eyes had lost their focus, looking, staring elsewhere than that room and his wife. He had momentarily receded into the workshop of his mind, wide and full, as elegant and tastefully arranged as his won person. In there, he had found his shelf on "Narcissa," everything he knew on the headstrong girl, flirtatious minx, devilish fighter, madwoman, woman, etcetera.

Nothing under "wife."

In his mind, he had never been married. He never would be. To yolk himself to any woman would be to contaminate his thoughts, his being, his very _essence._

No. Inside, at the very core, Lucius Malfoy was a cold, emotionless bachelor. To be married was to be in love. To love was to feel. To feel would be weak. Lucius Malfoy was anything but.

And so, in that esteemed workplace, Lucius Malfoy decided how to break the wanton creature awaiting a response. He examined the end result, the perfect reprimand.

The corners of his lips turned up.

Let her wait.

­

Narcissa blinked as she saw her husband slowly pull back to reality.

His eyes refocused and sharpened; his irises became less cloudy and regained their steel. Narcissa blinked her heavily lashed eyelids again, suddenly uncomfortable. Her husband had suddenly acquired his triumphant look. He hardly ever wore it, unless victory was imminent.

He wasn't often wrong.

Her eyes narrowed, willing him to look at her, to share his epiphany. Lucius complied.

Seeing the smirk playing at the corners of his upturned mouth, Narcissa's heart began to pulse with the first inklings of terror. Here, she knew, was the beginning of the end.


	3. Chapter Three

To Have and To Hold

_Chapter Three_

"Narcissa." Lucius' voice, to his own ear, reverberated as though from a great distance.

"Lovely, lovely Lady Narcissa." He paused. This was victory. Impending. Racing. He savored the look of apprehension only he could have detected. Savored it.

"You are banished."

Those three lilting words left his lips, freeing him of years past, hating and loving, and hating for loving. Free of years to come, of abhorring and loathing and cursing.

His glee could barely be contained as he watched the full realization of his words impact his wife. His lovely, lovely Lady.

Her face contorted, then smoothed, then grimaced again in silent disbelief.

He repeated the words once again, slowly, going over each with the satisfaction of a connoisseur.

Her hand flew to her bare chest. _She?_ the hand seemed to be exclaiming. _She?_

In the wizarding world, when one is pure bred and of old blood, banishment is among the worst fates one could be given; it simply wasn't used so often as it might, had it been given a different name. Unfortunately, it had long lost its terror to more threatening sounding tortures.

But to those who remembered it, those who valued it, the simple name held a terror unlike any torture or death one could name.

Narcissa was one who remembered.

She laughed unsteadily. "C-come now, Lucius." She began, attempting to cut him off from the last repetition that would finalize it. She looked desperately into his eyes, those hard grey eyes that barely concealed his unholy glee.

"L-Lucius—" Her voice caught. "You – you wouldn't – not _really_ –"

"You—" he cut in, eyes glinting, "—are –"

The little blood left in her face drained, leaving her golden appearance to become a pasty mockery.

Snarling, she lunged upward at him, her fingers scrabbling to cover her mouth.

"Ban—"

Gently, he pulled her clawing fingers away from his lips, heedless of the welts and razor fine cuts her nails had left. Almost lovingly, he pressed his body full against his wife, relishing in her tremors, "—ished." He murmured.

Before kissing her, applying his full lips to hers in a rapturous state for the last time, he whispered her name.

When the kiss ended, the door had opened.

Not a regular door, wooden and square like yours or mine, nor like the round steel door of a vault. Indeed, most would not refer to it as a door at all; instead, we would refer to it as a – rip. A rend. A jagged part, black and empty, hovering in the air, seven feet tall and shimmering like only the most potent of magics.

It was to this that Lucius tenderly led his wife. Echoes of _something_ left the rend in the air and penetrated the bedroom, filling it with an eerie stillness that only lost spirits could incur. Lucius suppressed a shudder. This room would be sealed off for a very, very long time.

Neither spoke as they approached, one filled with the terror that only the most horrific could instill; the other reverent as he approached the open wound.

Something waited on the other side.

Something lurked on that other side of the Borderline.

Something lay there, in wait – for _her._

_A thick, black fog crept out, feeling, testing the alien other side for the one it had been called for._

A hiss, a whisper, a shriek – filled with agony – malice – permeated the air. A word was in that sound, that lurking noise. Muddy and murky and muddled – a _name._

_Narcissa._

That night, and the next night, and the night after that – no shriek had ever so haunted him since his first torture as the scream of his wife.

The room was shut off to all or any access.

The door was never touched again.


	4. Chapter Four

To Have and To Hold

_Chapter Four_

Draco lay panting on the floor, blood trickling sluggishly from the corner of his mouth.

His wand lay upstairs at his bedside, neglected over the summer; pure forgetfulness.

He cursed silently as he lay there, trying to muster what little energy he had left. With his current lack of strength and the shape his body was in now, he was for the most part powerless. Even now he could feel his strength slowly ebbing away, and his mind was moving increasingly nearer to the soft darkness that lurked habitually, almost lovingly, at the edges of his benumbed brain.

He cursed again, desperately searching for that final reserve he knew he had – but too late. He had underestimated the hurts his body had sustained, and now his brain insisted on shutting down.

With a sigh of defeat, Draco submitted to the encroaching blackness, knowing resistance to be futile and annoying. _Father won't be pleased._ He thought, just managing to glimpse Armani clad feet before his eyes shut, the sound of their heels clicking against marble floor dimly ringing in his ears.

The Night Before

"I believe it's time my son were wed."

Severus Snape said nothing in response to this abrupt statement, choosing merely to sip at his chalice of mulled wine. He continued his silence patiently, waiting for the part of the scheme that would include him.

"You are to begin the search immediately."

Had Severus continued to drink after hearing the words "You are," he most likely would have choked on his drink.

Due to long experience, however, he had stopped before it reached his lips.

Severus took a moment, carefully placing the chalice down on the ornate ebony table sitting between himself and his old 'friend.'

Another moment passed before raising his dark eyes to meet the ones of his constant friend and adversary's.

"I, Lucius?" He asked mildly.

"Yes." Was the curt reply. "As godfather to my son, by tradition it is _your_ duty. It was my own godfather who finally secured my own wife."

_Yes,_ thought Severus, _and just look at the results._ Aloud he said nothing, merely watching the reclining form of Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius met his gaze, eyes hardening. "Damn all, Severus." He spoke softly, though his tone was anything but as he answered Severus' unspoken question. "Do you think I want one of my son's bastards to inherit the Malfoy name, estate, or _anything_ other? As long as the only claim is to resemblance, I could care less where he messes around. But anything else – it would be unacceptable. He has three years before he inherits, and I'd rather have him secured before he can decide to pour all his money and time into brothels, and none into legitimate heirs."

He ran a hand through his pale hair in frustration, scattering it in every direction. "Security, Severus." His fist smashed into the arm of his chair. "It is not gained through money alone – and my son needs to learn that."

_Anything for 'the name,'_ Severus thought wryly. _Blast the body, it's 'the name' that needs looking after. _But feeling the niggling sensation of his friend's prying, he kept that thought in the back of his mind, before gently closing it off.

"You don't need to sneak around there, Lucius." He reprimanded with a sigh. "As you said, he's my godson – though at the moment, I almost feel he's more trouble that that title's worth."

Lucius smirked. "Unfortunately for you, it's a bit too late to refuse." He replied lightly. "About eighteen years, to be exact. Now, no jokes. This is, after all, a serious matter. No lineages of less than twelve generations. None over one hundred twenty seven." His lip curled and Severus nodded knowingly.

To have a wife with a longer lineage than one's own would simply be demeaning.

"No girls from his school – the only ones worth consideration have been his playthings for too long."

"Virgin, then, Lucius?" Severus cut in.

He nodded shortly. "If possible. And Severus," He added, a dangerous glint in his hard grey eyes, "No mud in the mixture. Not a _single_ drop." He stood and turned to face the fire. "I would appreciate it if you would bring your friends to me, a dozen at a time. Have the elf procure the girl in charge of appearance and what not. Oh, and Severus – oversee the whole debacle."

Severus knew a dismissal when he heard one.

Rising stiffly, he cursed silently as he moved toward the floo gate, always open in this particular room. It seemed he was truly going to be a part of this, whether he wanted to or not.

His lip curled.

Severus Snape, Professor, Practitioner of the Dark Arts, potions connoisseur – and now, apparently matchmaker for the Malfoy heir apparent. Just hand him a headscarf and a skirt. How much lower could one possibly get?

Thinking perhaps it would help, he let out a few quite colorful and many original silent curses, mostly against Lucius' pleasure seeking abilities.

Just before the wall of sickly green portals enveloped him, he heard a quiet, half-amused voice over his shoulder.

"I heard that."


	5. Chapter Five

To Have and To Hold

_Chapter Five_

Draco awoke slowly, blinking. Turning his head slightly to one side, he ground his teeth at the grating sound of recently healed bone.

His neck had been broken within the last few hours.

Turning it to the other side, he winced – not out of pain, but from the sight of an IV needle sticking out of his lower arm, administering, no doubt, one of his godfather's more potent potions, fatal if ingested by mouth. While by no means phobic, needles were _not _one of Draco's favorite objects.

Grimacing, he reached over with one arm, cracking his wrist – also newly mended – and yanked at the needle, careful not to break off its ultra thin tip. While its minuteness toned down the pain if stabbed wrong, it also happened to make the object exceedingly fragile, and digging it out of one's skin was hardly a cheerful process.

Once free of the contraption, Draco sat up, fighting off the giddiness the potion often exerted. Rotating his fort absently, the cricks yet another sign of once-shattered-bone, he looked around the room for his clothes.

His own had been removed, tattered and shredded and ultimately useless as they were. Spotting them in our corner of the sunroom, he tottered unsteadily over to get them, cursing his godfather as he squinted against the brilliance of the westering sun.

_He had to have a potion that reacts to ultra violet rays._ He thought peevishly. He felt hung over, and the sun wasn't helping any in relieving the throbbing in his skull.

Once out of the room, he took a deep breath and forced himself to focus, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, shoving the headache roughly aside.

Padding softly across the carpeted floor, Draco did not little resemble a great cat, dressed all in black and moving with a silent sway. Reaching his father's door, he concentrated, refining the sounds, focusing on the vibrations of voices that one could feel, if one were still, and silent for a very long time. Abruptly, one those vibrations stopped.

Turning swiftly, Draco padded back halfway, then tuned and began walking as normal, carefully storing away the sounds to decipher later. Three quarters of the way there, the door to his father's study opened.

Draco stopped and nodded. "Sir."

Lucius barely glanced at his son and didn't reply as he moved northward – _probably to his library._ He thought absently. He didn't give a fig to his father's behavior; he knew the reason for it already. Besides, his father hadn't been a father in so long – at least six years – he no longer reacted to any attitude of pride or disproval any more. His _godfather_ was more paternal, and this thought was only strengthened when he examined his father and godfather's conversation, once in the privacy of his warded room.

Slowly, Draco sat back in his high-backed chair, letting out a slight breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. So. It was to be marriage. While not wholly unexpected, it still came as something of a shock. Absently, he wondered what he had done most recently to bring about this result...

Casting a glance at the dying sun, he yawned suddenly and shrugged down in his seat. He had long since quit using his bed for anything in the manner of sleep. Nightmares too often visited him there.


	6. Chapter Six

To Have and To Hold

The first batch of girls arrived the next day, responding to the traditional first step call out to all the rich, eligible, purebred young witches populating the world. Those first dozen were a good mix, from as far as China, to as near as France. American, Russian, Welsh – a dozen every other day came in for the next two weeks to meet the patriarch hosting the pageant. Each girl, after being made up expertly to look their best (which, in some cases, was a very poor excuse) was sent individually to meet the patriarch. Lucius would look them over, inspecting for flaws and impurities – physical, of course. Age and personality-wise, he could care less, but reasonable beauty was a must. After the physical inspection had ended, he would observe their eating habits – how much they took in, how loudly, how apparently, etc. Did they use the correct utensil? Did she _know_ which was which? All the things that were imperative to outings, dinnerparties and the like. The only thin Lucius checked for in the slightest relation to personality was their speech. No wife of a Malfoy must seem dominant, nor embarrassing to the spouse in any manner. Above all, however, she must not be barren.

And so, the parade continued, a mockery of love and marriage. It continued on through the end of summer holidays, into the school year. And still, a wife for the Malfoy scion was yet to be found.

In the end, the few that _did_ make it through the Lucius interrogations were frightened off by Draco at the final meeting. Literally. One was so far into hysterics that when she exited Draco's warded room – sprinting – she was claimed to be heard yelling that she would not ever be "bound" by marriage, never for all the millions any could possibly offer.

Draco, of course, found it all very amusing, and when asked what, exactly, he was doing to those girls, his answer was a snort and an evasive reply. "No two encounters are ever the same." He smirked. "I make sure of that."

His godfather only shook his head and told him he'd be sure to warn him of his father's coming. "After all," He had added wryly, "It would be such a shame to see you die so young."

"Yes," Draco replied, "and without a single legitimate heir to succeed." A sharp glance was all he got from his godfather, but Draco wasn't worried, Anything his godfather suspected, even if he knew all his plans and thoughts – not one of them would ever pass his lips, of that he was sure. To Severus Snape, 'confidante' was literal.

"Hey, Drake!"

Draco gave an inward groan. It was on of his many hangeron's, the ones who hoped that his infamy and talent would rub off if they stuck to him long enough. This one, while not the worst, was definitely the most persistent. Draco had even fixed him with the never-fail get-lost glare, and still he returned, boomerang style. Okay, it was now the _single-_failed get-lost glare, but he would try to ignore that.

Blaise Zabini came trotting up, an asinine grin splitting his face. "Heya, Drake, how's the bridal procession going?" He winked cheekily as he slung an arm about Draco's shoulders. "Bet you meet a lotta hot spots that way. Y'think your dad could recommend that approach to my parents?"

Draco shrugged out of his hold and lifted an eyebrow noncommittally. To the people at Hogwarts, that was a maximum of expression.

Ever since his seventeenth birthday – the day his mother "disappeared" – Draco had begun to recline in the public eye. Every week he spoke less and less, and his verbal responses became more and more contrite. What was – _where _was – the point in excessive speech? Why bother if body language could compensate?

Eventually, the more silent he became, the more inward he looked. For the first time, he began to examine himself. Even now, a year and a half later, his search was still in progress. Some things he uncovered he liked, and some, not so much. Some things he wished he'd never discovered. Others frankly shocked him.

One of the more surprising memories he had uncovered was from his childhood. He had never fully recognized how distinctly different he was when he had been a child than when he "grew up." The differences were astonishing.

While walking through his soul one day, he stumbled upon this:

_It was summer, bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. An eager little boy with a head of tossled gold hair raced ahead of his mother and father, stopping on one rise or another to smell a flower, then carefully pluck it and rush back to give it to his mother, meticulously holding it against his breast to shield them from the wind. His mother, a beautiful young, very young, lady, would laugh each time and tossle his hair or give him a hug or kiss._

_Suddenly, his father rushed forward. _If anything like that had happened at a later point in time, he would have bolted as far away as possible. _But the little boy simply squealed in delight; his father had just tossed him high in the air and caught him, spinning around in a circle before collapsing among the wildflowers, gently swaying in the wind, the grass rippling, as green as an ocean is blue._

_His mother clapped in delight, and suddenly the were picnicking, nary a care in the world. His mother wove a crown for herself and her son. The child tied and tore flowers haphazardly into a rickety circlet for his father, who laughed as it drooped disconnectedly over one eye. The child, all silent smiles until then, burst out into peals of laughter as mother and father both began to tickle him. All three laughed. Mother and Father kissed. They were a family._

Draco jolted back to the present as a long, spindly ruler smacked down on his desk.

"Master Malfoy," a dark voice came to his ear, "If you would be so kind as to oblige the class by moving to the blackboard, we would _all_ be most gratified."

The fact that his godfather was singling him out during class was proof of his irritation at being forced to play matchmaker.

Automatically, Draco stood and walked to the blackboard, gratefully inhaling the familiar fumes of potions class. He wasn't quite sure whether his mask was all the way on or not.

Thinking back to what his subconscious had just recalled, he wondered if it were indeed a true memory, or simply a dream.

When was the last time he had laughed? Perhaps he had forgotten how.

Startled, he reached up to touch his cheek. Something wet was running down his face. Condensation? He wondered.

Whatever it was, he wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe, and forgot about it.


End file.
